Page 494 of Fated to be Enemies

Throwing open the bathroom door, I find all the candles blown out and an empty room. Lit by a lone bedside lamp, the bedspread is depressed on one side where I assume Rhys had rested for a bit. Despite him giving me the space I demanded, I’m disappointed to not see him here. Irrational anger burns in my gut.

I shouldn’t care that he didn’t wait for me.

But I do.

I don’t care. I hate him.

Yeah, bitch. Keep telling yourself that. How’s reality working out for you?

Gritting my teeth, I glance at the bedside clock. I’m bone tired, but I need answers now that I’m done pouting in the bathroom. Even though it’s after midnight, I leave our shared room and my bullshit feelings, heading up the stairs to the fourth-floor loft, jingling my bangles the whole way.

I’m doing this because I’m trying to let Evan and West know I’m coming so they’ll stop making out and put some fucking clothes on.

But just like everything else, I know what I’m going to catch them doing, and I’d rather not see it in person. The vivid imagery in my brain is plenty—trust me. I’m pretty sure those two have been dating a while behind everyone’s back. How she kept it from me, though, I’m not so sure. It makes me wonder what else she’s hiding—the little shit. She’s practically been MIA for the last month.

I jingle the bracelets harder, but my warning goes unheeded, and I see way more of my friend's boob than I ever needed to. On the upside, West has a very nice ass, and I can attest he has tattoos just about everywhere. Resting my shoulder on the doorframe, I’m careful to look anywhere but in their direction, shaking my wrist as hard as I can.

Nothing.

“Did the loud-as-shit jingling not tip you off I was coming?” I gripe as they startle apart and hastily begin pulling on clothes.

I scold West’s back as he tucks himself into his low-riding jeans. “I could have been anyone in this house, you know. I could have been her dad. Hell, I could have been the enemy. Stop thinking with your dick and pick a room with a door, you moron.”

He growls at me through a good-natured smile, but his gaze swiftly goes to my best friend and the look in them says it all.

He loves her. Deeply.

“The loft? Really, Evan? You knew I was coming, jerk, and while you do have a fabulous rack, I don’t swing that way and I don’t need to see it.”

“Sorry.” She shrugs. “The time got away from us.”

“Evidently,” I grumble. “So you two are together? I take it that’s not new.”

She shakes her head with a sheepish expression, brushing errant curls off her forehead.

“Mazel tov. Maybe sometime you can talk to me about it, you know, when the threat of death isn’t so imminent. Sound like a plan?”

Evan lets her smile answer for her.

“So, while I’d love to scrub out my brain with bleach to erase what I’ve just seen, it’s not an option right now. Two questions. Where’s Rhys? And what the hell are all these people doing here? Go.”

“I think Rhys is in the game room getting to know the guys, and Dad’s personal guard is here because there’s been some serious unrest going on in our community. I talked to Dad a little bit before you got here, and there have been attacks on wraith families in the surrounding states. Five families are unaccounted for.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “Dad thinks the shit is about to hit the fan here, so as soon as he can get some things handled, we’re all leaving. He wanted me to extend the invitation to you and Rhys as well.”

She’s leaving something out. I know she is, but I’ll needle her about it later when her Goliath is not in the room.

“Why didn’t he say anything earlier?”

“I think it’s just Dad being cautious. Never can be too paranoid when it comes to times of war. You know that.”

I do. Even your own family can turn on you if you’re not too careful.

We make our way down to the game room, the sounds just as raucous as before. Only this time when I arrive, the conversation doesn’t halt like a bad ’80s movie record scratch. Each of the men continue what they’re doing as if I’m not here. I notice Rhys across the room talking to John—his body held in such a way I know interrupting would be a bad idea. Plopping down on a barstool, I survey each of the men.

Across the pool table, sitting on the smaller of the two couches, are two men slightly removed from the rest of the guards. They are arguing in murmured tones in a Portuguese dialect I don’t recognize. The one on the left of the couch has smooth, coppery-brown skin, full, almost pouty lips, a head of unruly black hair. He’s dressed casually in a plain navy shirt, ripped jeans, and motorcycle boots.

The one on the right has sharper cheekbones and fuller lips, his eyes and hair black as night. His crisp coal-black suit is at odds with the heavy fall of hair across his eyes. He looks pissed as hell, his voice dropping several decibels as his gestures and words turn sharper.

At the pool table in front of me are two men dueling with trash talk. The one at the head of the table is lining up his shot, the tight red shirt stretching across his impressive back. His rich brown skin almost glows in the overhead table light. He laughs at his friend, a white smile stretching across his full lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners.

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